Teorema

Pasolini's theorem proves to be a challenging contrast between the philosophical and the prurient.

Like most of IGN's faithful readership, we among the critics have our own specific interests in filmmakers, genres, and even movements that scarcely seem analogous to the remainder of our picks and preferences. Like the readers who champion Rent, celebrate Stephen Chow's unique brand of martial arts comedy, or sing the praises of any and all films featuring an umlaut in the title, we too love unique, often odd projects; and while I can't speak for Peter Schorn's abiding love for Olivia Newton John or Brent Simon's devout following of Paul Lynde's estimable canon, my own idiosyncratic affections fall towards a slightly broader but equally specialized group of filmmakers: Italian avant-garde directors from the 1960s and '70s.

This rarified category includes (but is certainly not limited to) the likes of Antonioni, Bertolucci, and of course, Fellini. Pier Paolo Pasolini, however, earns special distinction, and not merely because his Teorema is the subject of discussion, or because his filmography ranks the highest among this group in home video commodities (good luck finding a copy of Salo for less than $100). Rather, it's because he challenged the notion of narrative cinema right up until (and some would argue, beyond) his premature death in 1975 at the age of 53.

Teorema exemplifies his unconventional approach to storytelling, which often pitted religion and sexuality against one another in a moral grudge match, the winner of whom is determined only by the audience. In the film, Terence Stamp stars as an enigmatic visitor who changes a bourgeois family forever when he comes for a brief visit; would that there were more plot details I'd happily provide them, but Pasolini provides only the most threadbare of frameworks, instead doting upon contrasting images to tell a story far more compelling than could be rendered via the machinations of storytelling convention.

Stamp is by far the best thing about Teorema, not the least of which because he provides a serene, recognizable face for the film's embodiment of both God and the Devil. But the film's often obvious analogies between the sacred and the profane work far better in small doses than under the constraints of a purported feature-length "theorem;" in one sequence, for example, Pasolini evokes Mary sitting at Jesus' feet, but frames a shot such that the only things visible are a girl's head and Stamp's crotch. While these subtextual cues offer a telling commentary on Pasolini's views about religion, they prove clunky in a film driven more by intellect than emotion.

At 98 minutes, the film feels overlong, particularly during its second half, when Stamp's character leaves and the family members undergo their philosophical and in some cases physical transformations. But the value of movies like this one is the same as for its predecessor, Uccellacci e Uccellini (also known as The Hawks and the Sparrows), as well as Antonioni's Red Desert, or Bertolucci's long overdue on DVD masterpiece The Conformist: they celebrate concepts over character and story, and ideas over the shackles of familiar structure. Flawed though the film may be, it's a worthy entry for any cineaste interested in expanding his or her repertoire of influences and inspirations.

So rent, borrow or buy away, because Teorema offers a necessary answer to the question haunting modern moviegoers - namely, where do we go now that everything's been done? The answer, of course, is to look backwards; while the more commercial and conventional venture tenuously into one film, genre or movement at a time, afraid to ruffle feathers or upset the status quo, it's always reassuring to know that there will always be existing films that choose to subvert, stretch or altogether eliminate our expectations in the name of showing us something new.

Score: 7 out of 10

The Video Teorema is presented in anamorphic widescreen (1.85:1) preserving the aspect ratio of the theatrical exhibition. Given the film's obscurity and the no-doubt dodgy source celluloid, this is a satisfactory but unspecial transfer: colors are sharp, focus is mostly strong, and contrast is subdued if discernible. Unlike the more prominent films of Bertolucci and Fellini from that time, Teorema seems strictly a low-budget affair, and given the limited appeal even of this DVD (I'm the only one saying "wherefore art thou, Hawks and the Sparrows?"), the movie looks good but ranks below the pristine quality of indie-distributor standard bearers Criterion.

Score: 7 out of 10

The Audio Koch Lorber indicates on the back of the DVD that the audio option is "Dolby Digital," but I'd be hard-pressed to know Dolby Digital what; at best there's a mono mix, which certainly fulfills the modest demands of the film's story. That said, the audio is all clear and well-synchronized, which is sometimes a problem with older foreign films. Dialogue is concentrated in the center channel and front speakers, while extremely low-key ambience is created via vestigial satellite audio.

Vincent Gallo fans will note that the film's central theme, Ted Curson's "Tears For Dolphy," also featured prominently in The Brown Bunny, perhaps lending further credulity to the argument that Gallo's movie was inspired more by avant-garde narrative technique and meditative concepts than the prurient appeal of getting blown on camera.

Additionally, English subtitles are available for the hearing impaired.

Score: 4 out of 10

Extras and Packaging Teorema is presented in a standard Amaray case with a paper insert featuring a plot synopsis, a list of bonus materials, and technical information about the disc. The single-disc release features only one "extra," a 2005 documentary entitled "Pasolini and Death: A Purely Intellectual Thriller."

Contrary to the meditation on Pasolini's death that its title suggests, the documentary is an obtuse and virtually unwatchable treatise on Pasolini's guiding principles; rather than exploring anything direct about the director's complicated and still-mysterious life, this 53-minute film borrows aesthetic cues from its iconoclast subject, creating a "story" as melodramatic as it is indecipherable.

The worst part of the film is its voiceover, which "translates" interview subjects' responses into almost comically serious dialogues about the theater, Pasolini, death, and any number of ancillary subjects that they feel are important to the director's oeuvre. Ultimately, there might be some profundity to be found within this sizable bonus material, but it has little or nothing to do with Teorema itself, and demands either to be laughed at or just plain turned off.